


A Spanner in the Works

by Siana



Series: Not all that Glitters is Lost [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Finrod discovers a new kink, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, That kink is Edrahil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-19 06:14:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29995104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siana/pseuds/Siana
Summary: Finrod sets out on the path of his life, overshadowed by the Doom laid upon him on the banks of Sirion. But what if something changes? What if a single deed is enough to change his fate forever?This is the Edrahil-centric continuation of "Stolen Fruits From Your Lips".
Relationships: Edrahil/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto
Series: Not all that Glitters is Lost [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2206413
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tags and rating to be updated as the story goes on. 
> 
> I have said this before, but credit goes again to Mertiya and daphnerunning for giving me the inspiration to write at all and RaisingCaiin for selling me on the Finrod/Edrahil ship.

Finrod, son of Finarfin, stands at the top of his tower on Tol Sirion and gazes westward. His heart ever longs to return to Valinor, to see his atar and ammё again, to walk again under the trees of Loríen. Sometimes it is like an ache in his heart, a mar upon his _f_ _ё_ _a_ just as Arda has been marred. But he has left by his own choice and there is no return.

Not as long as they abide by the Doom of Mandos.

There is no blood on his hands, but he can still feel the weight of it all the same. He may have spilled no blood in Alqualondё but he has given succor to his cousins who have, has pledged to stand beside them against Morgoth. He even… But his thoughts shy from the memory. It is a precious one, tender to his heart, but he cannot bear to think of it in the shadow of his own dark thoughts.

He is restless, a tower he has built but his heart has always been called to adventure. Perhaps it is time to find one.

Elu Thingol, his mother’s kin, has invited him and his brothers to visit in Menegroth and he ought to go, if nothing else to see his sister again. But he finds himself hesitant, beset by unquiet thoughts. Torn between the house of Finwё where he has placed his allegiance, and the house of Elwё, whom he has never met before and who has yet to learn his kin have been slain.

Still, his feet ache for travel, for adventure and exploration. To discover something that few else have yet seen. Perhaps it is time to write to his friend Turgon. He has a mind to follow the Sirion to its mouth, to see for himself where the river he has made his home meets the sea.

~~~

Finrod would have liked it to be only him and Turgon, but Orodreth, whom he had charged with the tower’s defense in his absence, insists he take a guard along. Turgon, somehow avoids the same fate, undoubtedly because he has left his most obdurate retainers in Nevrast. So it is that they set out on a beautiful day, sunlight striking sparks on the river Sirion, with one single guard in tow. He is a short fellow of few words, but he is skilled with a blade and bow, and more than that, reliable, having come over the grinding ice with them.

He introduces himself as Edrahil, which is not the name he bore on the ice, but then, he had not been Finrod then either.

They ride for days in peace and it is easy to forget Edrahil has not been part of their friendship before. He does not speak much, and often only when prompted but when he does speak it is with surprising insight. Still, he is reserved and deferential, as is perhaps befitting, but the farther they go, the more it grates on Finrod.

“Will you not address my by name?” He asks one evening, as they set up camp. They are nearing the borders of Doriath and will have to depart from the Sirion for a time, for Finrod may have free passing through the lands of his kin, but Turgon has not. It is just as well; this is an adventure after all and the woods west of Sirion still hold a breath of wilderness.

“I would not dare,” says Edrahil as he sets down his own bedroll, as always, some distance away from where Turgon and Finrod are curled together. It is spring rushing towards summer, but the nights can still be cold, especially near the water. But there is no easy way to invite Edrahil to join them in the cuddle pile, nor does he wish to speak for Turgon on the matter. Turgon gives him a look over the fire, amused perhaps by Finrod’s continued exasperation with proper decorum.

“And if I asked you to?”

“Then it would mean little, as I would have to obey what you say, my Lord.”

Finrod smiles at that. “At the very least, you do not hesitate to speak your mind.”

Edrahil inclines his head, but says nothing.

Finrod sighs, more for theatrics than vexation.

“Orodreth would have a fit, if he knew you’d be this quick to shed propriety,” Turgon puts in.

“And how ought my nephew find out?”

Turgon shrugs, “when you come back and he calls you ‘Ingo’ in front of everyone?”

Finrod huffs, “there is no need to be dramatic.” It’s not as though he would mind, but it seems only his closest kin dare call him that, not even Turgon calls him thus. Or his cousins when they couple and that is _not_ a thought he needs right now.

“Finrod then?”

“And I would not mind that in the least,” he says primly.

“I know you wouldn’t, but don’t expect Orodreth to agree,” Turgon says with equanimity.

“Truly, I do not know where he got it from. Angrod certainly would not care.”

“Must have skipped a generation.”

Finrod makes a decidedly un-Lordly face. “Do not remind me. ”He loves his parents dearly, but Eärwen had been a strict teacher in many things. “Ammё’s lecture are nothing to laugh at.”

At that Edrahil make a soft noise, a little strangled laughter, quickly biting his tongue to quell it.

“Ohhh,” Finrod says, leaning forward to glean a peek at Edrahil’s face. “You enjoy my misery.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” says Edrahil, perfectly straight-faced.

“Lady Eärwen is quite renown,” Turgon says. “Once, Finrod used some of her cosmetics without asking and she lectured him for an entire hour.”

Despite himself, Finrod blushes. “It wasn’t so bad.” She’d had a point after all. He ought to have known to ask. “She even showed me how to do it afterward.” And it had been delightful. Especially when Artanis had joined in and they’d made themselves look near identical. They had waited to surprise Arafinwё, making him guess which one of them was his spouse. But of course, he had known by heart, but he had still played along, pretending he had to think quite long and hard ere he found his wife.

“At least I did not get caught borrowing my father’s sword;” Finrod says under his breath.

“Oh, you wouldn’t _dare_ ,” Turgon fakes outrage and for a little while they trade embarrassing stories about each other, trying - at least in Finrod’s case - to prompt Edrahil to more laughter.

“I do remember this incident,” Edrahil says to him later, after they have had supper and Turgon went to clean the dishes in the river. “The one with the cosmetics.”

“Oh?”

Edrahil smiles, a touch wistfully, or maybe it is merely the firelight that plays tricks with the shadows on his face. “I was visiting family in Tirion at the time. I did not know you then or what had befallen, but I saw the three of you, when you were walking through the city. You looked-” He looks away suddenly, firelight casting red onto his cheeks.

Finrod remembers. They had gone out to the city after, much to the embarrassment of his brothers. It had been worth it however. Well, until Maglor - Makalaurё then - had composed a song in his honor, memorializing Finrod forever as the ‘fairest maiden in all of Valinor’. The song had been exquisitely good of course. And it was worth it to Lord it over Galadriel that he was fairer than her, but it also meant he had to listen to the song at most all family gatherings. And Maglor would often create new, ever more embarrassing verses on each rendition.

Edrahil cannot quiet meet his gaze, perhaps he has heard the song as well. Finrod ponders that and what I might portend, but the thought strays soon, when Turgon returns and splashes some water on him in revenge for making him wash the dishes, never mind Finrod had actually shot the hare that had been their dinner.

The thought does not come back until much later and it is only upon the reflection of his own revelation that it blossoms into something akin to hope.

~~~

Peace on their journey does not last long, however.

It happens just past the fens of Sirion, before the river vanishes underground. It is Edrahil who spots it first, traces of orcs and fell things and so they dismount and hide the horses in a copse of trees, Turgon remaining to keep watch. If it were up to Edrahil, Finrod too would remain, but he insists and, in the end, they set off together. Finrod is a fairly decent hunter, but he is no tracker, but Edrahil has no trouble picking up the trail - a mere day old at most - and follow it.

It is worrisome. The Ñoldor have not yet taken root so deeply in these lands that they were free of dangers, but they are not far from Doriath and he would have thought the border regions safe in the least. “How many?” Finrod asks quietly.

“I cannot say,” Edrahil says. He is staring ahead, toward where the land abruptly drops, the Falls of Sirion raising a faint noise in the distance. If the orcs went into the hills… “It is a small band, but I cannot say how many. These traces are… odd.”

“How so?”

Edrahil puts his hand down, near a spot that Finrod thinks might have been a footprint, if he squinted really hard. “Something was dragged here, but it was not heavy.”

Finrod squints. It still only seems like a footprint to him, but then Edrahil shifts his hand slightly, tilts it palm up and then Finrod can suddenly see the pattern. Something has dragged the soil just slightly, like a comb dragging through hair. “What could it have been?” Thinking of orcs dragging anything was never pleasant. Nothing good comes to mind, but thinking they dragged something light enough to easily carry instead? “We ought to find out.”

Edrahil looks up at him, alarmed. “My Lord!”

“These orcs may be setting up a stronghold in these mountains. If they do, we need to know.”

“But not by your hand,” Edrahil hisses, “it is too dangerous.”

“There is not time,” Finrod insists. “These trails won’t last long, not if the chill I feel is anything to go by and once they are washed away by the rain, we will not find them again. They might just be passing through or they might have more sinister designs, but we need to _know_.” They are too close to Doriath and with his sister dwelling there…

Edrahil is clearly unhappy by this prospect, but he concedes all the same. They follow the trail towards the falls, hills rising about them and the water cascading down is a mighty clamor in their ears. The noise is deafening up close and Finrod can nearly feel the pressure of the water bearing down on him. The falls themselves are a sight to behold, air thick with rainy mist as the water pours downward in an endless stream.

Edrahil pauses and frowns. He tilts his head as if to listen, but surely there is nothing to hear over the noise of the falls. They are secluded here, surrounded on two sides by rising cliff face and cut of ahead by the gaping hole in the ground. Finrod feels a prickle of unease. Carefully, almost hesitantly, Edrahil leads him further, towards an almost hidden path that winds its way past the falls and deeper into the hills. The noise recedes, once they pass and at last Finrod can hear himself think again.

And then Edrahils suddenly grabs him and yanks him into the shelter of a rock outcrop, the space behind hollowed and just barely big enough to fit them both. Edrahil pushes Finrod inside first, almost ruthlessly so and he scrapes his skin in more than one place and then follows behind, pressing them together tightly, as to fit into the narrow space.

Just in time, for a moment later he can hear the scrape of boots on rock, the clanging of metal and the heavy grunting breathing of orcs. Finrod’s heart thumps painfully in his chest. He would have missed them, if it weren’t for Edrahil.

The passage lies in shadow, deeper now that noontide has passed and that must surely be what allows these orcs to be about in daytime.

He must have made a sound then, or perhaps his breathing was too loud, for Edrahil clamps a hand over his mouth. From how close they are pressed together, Finrod cannot quite make out the expression on his face, but he can see the way his forehead bunches as he desperately strains to listen. Nay, Finrod realizes, he isn’t just listening, he’s trying to see around the rock outcrop, face angled almost painfully in an effort to catch a glimpse.

Finrod tries to make himself smaller, tries to fuse into the rock face behind him, in order to make more room for Edrahil. But all that serves to do is to press him closer into Edrahil, against his firm chest and he is struck just how solid he feels. Finrod freezes for lack of anything better to do. Squirming against Edrahil is a decidedly bad idea in these circumstances.

The orcs pass, Finrod only catching snatches of their words, and either way, he is not fluent in the dark language and he can make little sense of it.

Eventually, the clamor of their presence fades and Edrahil finally relaxes against him, yet still doesn’t move. His hand slips from Finrod’s mouth, fingers catching perhaps unintentionally on Finrod’s collar, the tips brushing against the skin of his neck. For a moment, the world seems to freeze. Then Edrahil snatches his hand back, as if burned and Finrod’s heart remembers how to beat.

The danger has passed, but now the air is heavy with something else. Finrod is acutely aware of how close they are. But more than that, it is the fact he’s pressed up against the wall by a body heavier than his own. Edrahil may be smaller, but he makes up for it by sheer bulk alone. He’s trapped like this and from the way Edrahil hauled him around earlier, it is clear that he is stronger than Finrod too.

And that shouldn’t do anything to him, not like this, but Finrod can’t quite calm the frantic beating of his heart.

“They ought to be far enough away,” Edrahil says and squeezes his way back out of the gap at last. Finrod takes a moment ere he follows, mastering himself enough to focus.

“What did you see?” he asks once he has followed. There are clear markings of their passing, even for Finrod’s untrained eyes. He wonders too, at their direction. Was there perhaps a secret hideout in these hills? Had he been right in the end, to think they were building a stronghold?

“Half a dozen orcs,” Edrahil says. “From what they said, there seem to be more in their camp.”

“More? You speak their language?”

Edrahil watches him warily. “I do. It is useful on scouting missions.”

“I wished to learn, but I could not find anyone to teach me,” Finrod says, excited now despite himself.

“It is not a pleasant language,” Edrahil says guardedly.

“All the same. I will not deny knowledge that can make a difference. Will you teach me? Please?”

Edrahil hesitates.

“You do not have to,” Finrod quickly assures. “I am not asking as your Lord. But as…” he almost says friend, but they are not that. Not yet perhaps, but all the same, he does not dare to presume. “… a favor,” he ends lamely.

“It is not that,” Edrahil says. “It is-” he shakes his head. “No matter, I will teach you. But first we ought to return, Lord Turgon is waiting and may grow weary of it soon.”

Now it is Finrod’s turn to shake his head. “We must not. Not until we have ascertained their purpose.”

To his surprise, Edrahil does not protest this time, merely nods his head with a resigned expression. “As you will it. But please stay behind me and do as I say. My instincts are sharper and I would not like to answer to Lord Orodreth why you have not returned.”

“I will,” promises Finrod, thinking to himself he perhaps ought to have a talk with his nephew. His guards ought to listen to him and not his overly concerned nephew.

It does not take them long to find the camp. The path winds deeper into the hills, growing steeper and rockier as they go, and with every step the signs of orc occupation grow. They hear the camp too, long before they spot it. It is nestled snugly into an outcropping, where part of the cliff face has broken off, leaving large crags and overturned boulders behind. Edrahil finds a climbable trail, leading them out of sight up part of the cliff wall and then around the camp until they lie snugly on one of the larger boulders, overlooking the campsite.

It’s larger than he thought, but just as messy and unorganized as he’d come to expect. The latter is not surprising, but the former- Finrod draws in a sharp breath and suddenly he is glad, fiercely, proudly glad that he has come here. He would not have known otherwise.

Edrahil looks at him alarmed, eyes wide and worried and perhaps he perceives something in Finrod’s eyes for he clamps a hand to his forearm and shakes his head. “You must not, my Lord,” he says urgently under his breath. “We are but two and certainly not enough-”

Finrod looks at him. He has to doubt for a moment, if Edrahil could really be this heartless. But there is pain in his eyes. He does not want to leave either, but the spasming force of his grip tells Finrod that the duty to his Lord will always come first.

“It cannot be,” says Finrod. “What would have been the point otherwise, to come here and claim these lands to ruler over as Lords, if not to protect those who live here? Would you have me the kind of elf to turn his back?”

For there are prisoners in this camp, a group of elves, Sindar or perhaps even Sylvan, it is hard to tell from this angle and with the mantle of filth and misery clinging to them. They have been treated cruelly, it is plain to see.

“It will kill us both, like as not,” Edrahil says, but his voice is heavy and resigned. There is fear in his eyes, not for himself, but for _him,_ Finrod realizes almost wonderingly. Still, what he says is likely true and he has no mind to die here. So a plan must be made and quickly. “Let me do it,” Edrahil says grimly, slipping his hand from where had held onto Finrod and even in their absence Finrod can still feel the impression of his fingers. “You will have to lead them to safety in my stead.” He makes to get up, to put deeds to words and it is all Finrod can do to grab him and hold him back.

“Don’t you dare,” he almost hisses, ere he catches himself, still, his voice is frantic with urgency. Edrahil looks at him, startled. “You fool,” Finrod says, near desperately. “Do you not think it is the same for you? Would you have me spend your life to buy my own? You are my people too.”

“And yet, I am sworn to protect you,” says Edrahil and damn him, for not even flinching in the face of his own conviction.

“There is no need for either of us to die,” Finrod insists and now at least Edrahil sinks back against the cold stone willingly to look at him and wait. “I am not so foolish as to rush in without a plan.”

He lays it out then, with quick and concise words. The best time to strike is now, when they are still guarded by the sun, and when the larger part of the orcs has gone off somewhere. That makes it risky too, but Finrod has to concede, the risk of waiting is higher. There are only four orcs left at the camp, two busy watching and occasionally tormenting the prisoners with pointed sticks and two more who sit at the edge of the camp, quietly watching the path. Past the camp, the path winds deeper into the hills, but from their vantage point Finrod can see it narrowing precariously until it seemingly vanishes altogether. Either way, the orcs had come and gone from the same direction, which means there is no other way out. And that is the true danger of their situation, to overcome four orcs between the two of them with the element of surprise will be easy enough. But to remove the prisoners from this trap…

Edrahil doesn’t immediately speak once Finrod has finished, but instead thinks it through himself. In the end, he nods. “Aye, that may well work. Although I would ask you stay behind and mind the rope instead.” Finrod opens his mouth to protest, but Edrahil speaks ere he can voice his objection. “I will not budge on this, my Lord. I have seen your knife skills and I will say in a pinch, you will be the better shot.”

Finrod frowns in confusion, but it becomes clear enough when Edrahil pulls out a pair of daggers and hands them to Finrod. They are short and straight and oddly balanced, which means they are meant for throwing. True, he will not be able to use his bow, if he is to mind the rope. Still, it is fickle reasoning but he concedes the argument, as he can see in the firm line of Edrahil’s mouth that he is not to be swayed.

Edrahil moves forward then, to the edge of the boulder, until he is in easy risk to be seen. Like this, he is above the two orcs guarding the prisoners, better to drop on them. Finrod takes up his bow. They will have to be fast, and silent on top of that. Orcs are known to lay hands on any prisoners ere they be freed and worse still, any sound will echo in these hills. Edrahil waits, poised to strike and gives Finrod a single nod. Finrod loosens the first arrow, just as Edrahil drops down on top of the two orcs. From his position Finrod cannot see what he does, only hear the thump of his weight hitting a body, the startled grunt of an orc and then the song of blades drawn.

It is over a moment later, just as the second guard orc dies with Finrod’s arrow in his throat. Finrod scrambles forward, to where a single tree clings valiantly to the rock. It’s short and scraggly, but Finrod can still sense life in it. It will have to be enough. Edrahil tosses him the end of a rope pilfered from the orc camp and Finrod ties it to the tree. He pulls on it to test the strength and notices to his dismay that the tree doesn’t sit as securely as it had seemed. He will just have to carry most of the weight by himself then.

It takes a while for Edrahil to free the elven prisoners. It is difficult not to urge him to hurry, even knowing that he is certainly doing his best to be quick. And then there is the first one, a young _nér_ on the cusp of adulthood. In his arms he holds an even younger _nís_ , the child - likely his sister, clinging to him with a tear-stained face. He peers up at Finrod, eyes wide and fearful. There are bruises on his face and on the face of the _nís_ and Finrod feels mute anger rise within him. Edrahil appears, the rest of the elves in tow. There are two adult elves, a couple it seems and another _nís_ , barely an adult herself. Her eyes alone are not fearful and her gaze is sharp as she looks up at Finrod. It is she who pushes the young _nér_ forward and its she too who takes the _nís_ from his arms, cradling her close to her chest. Edrahil makes quick work of looping the rope around the _nér_ and then Finrod is pulling him up, hand over hand. The rope is rough and uneven and it chafes his skin but Finrod does not slow until he has pulled the elf to safety.

Finrod tosses down the end of the rope again and then they repeat the process with the adult _nís_ and then the _nér._ The _nér_ looks at Finrod for a moment, eyes still wary but he gives a sharp nod then and settles in next to him. “I will help,” he says in rough Sindarin, the syllables clipped by his accent.

“The rope will chafe,” warns Finrod. He has used the tree as best as he can, but he cannot trust it to hold the full weight of an elf, so the most of the work had to be done by his own hands. The skin of his palms has split and the blood has made the task slippery and dangerous.

“It matters not,” he says, staring down with hooded eyes at his two daughters.

Finrod merely nods and hands him part of the rope waiting for Edrahil to finish up. Edrahil has found a way to tie both _nissi_ in a way that leaves them both secured, the smaller one tied to the older one’s back with another rope taken from the orcs. To his surprise, the _nís_ grabs the rope in front of her, yanks on it once to test the strength and then pulls herself up, hand over hand. She grimaces when the rough fiber cuts into her hands, but she keeps going and Finrod and the _nér_ are quick to pull her along. Her father sobs when she reaches the top, pulling her into his arms, cradling both his daughters. It is as though a dam has been breached, the fear lingers but for a moment the family is lost in their joy.

He has not the heart to take this from them, so Finrod turns back to his task, waiting until Edrahil has secured the rope around himself. He is fair bulkier and heavier than the _nér_ and Finrod’s hands are slippery with blood. He wipes them on his tunic, ignoring the painful sting. He sets his hand to the rope and pulls. Edrahil helping by pulling himself up, just as the _nís_ had. And then, just as Edrahil has covered half the distance they hear it. The unmistakable clamor of orcs, the fall of heavy boots, grunts and the clang of weapons. Finrod freezes for a moment, but then desperately grasps the rope and pulls harder. His muscles burn and he can feel his arms tremble with the strain but he cannot stop he has to pull, he has to-

His eyes meet Edrahil’s who looks- _No_ , Finrod mouths, panic a vise around his heart. But Edrahil doesn’t hesitate, he pulls a knife and cuts the rope in one quick slash. Finrod stumbles backwards and before he can recover, hands grab and pull down. He struggles, mindlessly, overtaken by fear and the need to save Edrahil, but then a hand clamps over his mouth and a familiar voice hisses, “quiet!”, just as below one of the orcs gives a surprised shout.

Finrod goes rigid. Perhaps, he thinks madly, Edrahil has found cover and will be safe, he will-

One of the orcs says something and then Edrahil answers in the same language, guttural and strange. Finrod closes his eyes. _No_ , he thinks desperately, _this cannot be. Not like this._

The hand retreats from his mouth and Finrod opens his eyes. The _nér_ looks at him grimly, perhaps waiting for him to have another fit. Finrod nods at him and then reaches for his bow. The _nér’_ s eyes widen and he makes to stop him again, but is halted this time by his eldest daughter. She has handed off her sister to their mother, who is curled around her, gently rocking in an effort to keep her quiet. The young _nér_ is huddled against them, staring at Finrod with wide fearful eyes.

Below, the sounds of a fight have picked up.

“Give me the bow,” the _nís_ says and holds out her hand. There is something savage in her eyes, her _fëa_ seeming to burn cold behind her gaze. “I will shoot. You throw,” she says and jerks her head towards the pair of knives, lying forgotten near the tree.

She is an unknown, but Finrod has not the time to doubt and even more so, his hands are shredded and he does not think he could shoot a bow like this. He hands her the bow and she pulls three arrows from the quiver on his back with the same motion she uses to take it from his hand. Finrod dives for the knives. He is not the greatest warrior his family has borne, but he has seen battles aplenty and he has found his heart to be cold and his hand to be steady when the heat of battle closes around him. His hands are still steady, but his heart is beating painfully against his chest and he cannot let himself think about the price of failure.

Edrahil has retreated against the cliff face, facing the five orcs closing in on him. One lies dead already; the others have formed a lose circle around Edrahil. He is bleeding from a shallow cut on his shoulder and for a blinding moment, Finrod’s mind is filled with shapeless, mindless wrath.

His bow sings next to him, a sharp twang and one of the orcs stumbles and falls, an arrow protruding from his left eye. The noise recedes, leaving his mind clear and cold. Finrod flicks his hand. The dagger flies true, taking one of the orcs in the neck.

It is foolish luck more than anything else. When Finrod had stumbled backwards, he had pulled with him the rope, erasing any trace of their presence on the boulder. So when the orcs had discovered a lone elf in their campsite they like as not assumed the prisoners had escaped further down the path. A single elf might pose little threat to six orcs and their confidence had made them sloppy. They had not expected the attack from above and thus not guarded for it. And even then, without the help of the _nís_ it might still not have been enough.

It is a chilling reminder of how narrow the line between life and death truly is.

And Finrod cannot bear to think on what might have happened, if they had been a little slower, Edrahil a little less lucky in evading that first strike that had caught him.

~~~

They had intended to sneak out of the canyon the way they had entered, but with all of the orcs now dead, there is no more need for stealth. It is just as well that getting everyone down from the boulder is much easier than getting up. Still, it is tedious work and by the time they are done, the sun is dipping towards the horizon and a chill has settled into the air.

There is little talk as they make their way out of the hills, Edrahil in the lead. He has refused any more than the most cursory treatment to his wound, claiming it was not deep enough to warrant their delay. Equally, Finrod has only wrapped strips torn from his tunic around the palms of his hands. The rope has rubbed off most of the skin, and he can feel stiffness settle in, so some of the musculature must have been damaged. It is nothing a skilled healer cannot mend, but Finrod has tasted too much warfare to achieve much.

The falls announce themselves with deafening clamor long before they reach them and Edrahil slows. He takes more care in guiding them past, stopping occasionally to look for tracks or signs of pursuit but they pass without incidence. At last, they step out of the shadows of the hills. The river stretches out before them and there, in the distance Finrod can make out the copse of trees where they left Turgon. He can only hope that Turgon sees them from where he waits and that his heart is relieved.

The _nér_ turns to him ere he can set the first foot out into the plain.

“This is where we will part,” he says solemnly.

“Will you not come with us?” Finrod asks. “We have a friend waiting, there are supplies-”

The _nér_ shakes his head. He seems old now, careworn by his sorrows. “I thank you. Nay, truly I do. Not just for the offer but for-” he swallows and looks away for a moment. “You have saved me and my family, and I could never hope to repay that.”

There is no need,” Finrod says gently. “It is my duty, if nothing else to see these lands safe.”

“You ought not to be so quick to claim this land.” The young _nís_ says suddenly. He has not noticed her as she came up next to her father. She is looking off into the distance and her father gives her an odd look, cast in faint wariness.

“I did not mean to claim them,” says Finrod softly. “I have a duty to these lands and all that live in them,” - it is the least he can do, after coming here from bliss and bringing nothing but doom - “but that does not mean-”

“But you will,” she says. “You will claim it and nourish it and the land will drink your tears and blood until there is nothing left but ashes.”

Her words carry a ring of truth, doubly so as they seem to echo what he himself had glimpsed, dreaming upon the banks of Sirion. He has not spoken of his dream, not even to Turgon and he had hoped that it had been nothing more than a dream. A chill settles in his bones, not borne from cold but from the knowledge that his Doom is inescapable.

“She has the gift of foresight,” her father says. “It is said-” he hesitates but if he is waiting for his daughter to speak or stop him, she does neither. “It is said she can see an elf’s fate.”

Finrod nods. He knows not what else to do or say to that. The _nís_ smiles at him, wan and knowing. He suddenly wishes, desperately, that he were wrong, that the Doom he had perceived for himself were nothing but a stray night terror without meaning. But in her eyes, he sees the truth reflected back at him. She has seen the same for him. Part of Finrod feels like crying.

“We were separated from our kin when the orcs attacked. We will go and find them,” the _nér_ says, unaware of what has passed between them. “The orcs came upon us suddenly and without warning. We knows these lands well and we have not seen groups such as these before. I do not think there are many of them, but if there are, we will hunt them and expel them from these lands.” He looks grim as he says it and Finrod feels a small measure of relief. The _nér_ gives him a grave look. “If there is ever-”

“There is no need,” says the _nís_. Her father startles and looks at her. He seems as if to speak, but ere he can his daughter continues, “I will pay the debt for all of us.” At this, a look of grief crosses her father’s face, but he says nothing to gainsay her. He nods once at both of them and then turns towards the rest of the family. Finrod looks after him, at the tense lines of his shoulders, at the resigned expression on his wife’s face when he reaches them and quietly speaks to them. Edrahil waits a few paces away, seeking his gaze, but Finrod averts his eyes. He cannot bear to have Edrahil catch even a glimpse of what has befallen Finrod. Not when he still fills so vulnerable and raw by the realization that his Doom was real

“When the time comes, do not only sing of light,” the _nís_ says suddenly. “Life shines brightest in the shadow of sorrow.”

“When the time comes? I do not understand:”

“You will.” Her eyes glitter strangely in the light of the dying sun. “Sooner or later, you will understand.”

“Thank you,” Finrod says. He knows not for what, nor if he will be grateful when it comes to pass. But he recognizes a gift when it is given. “Will you give me your name?” He asks at last. “Perhaps we shall meet again.”

She smiles at him then, a smile far older than her years could ever count to be. “If we ever do meet, it will be for ruin,” she says. Finrod can sense the weight of truth in her words. Somehow, they mirror what he has perceived of his own Doom. It is as if by speaking, she has tangled her fate with his, but he cannot say to what end. “But I shall give you my name, bright one. It is Faeriel.”

Finrod bows to her. “Well met Faeriel. I am Finrod son of Finarfin and I thank you for the gift you have bestowed upon me.” And he hopes, desperately, that he will not receive it in vain.

~~~

By the time they finally make it to where Turgon is waiting, night has truly fallen.

“Thank you,” Finrod tells him later, after they have shared what has happened and seen to Edrahil’s wound and Finrod’s hands, “for waiting.”

“I did not know if I ought to have,” Turgon says. “I could not say where you had gone, else I would have followed. I was worried.” He does not say how much it must have burdened him and Finrod has no words to frame his remorse. But Turgon merely puts a hand on his arm, quietly as though he understands. And perhaps he does. Finrod has not forgotten the grinding ice, those terrible days after Elenwё had vanished. Turgon had gone out to look for her often, leaving little Idril with Finrod or Fingon and they had not known what else to do but wait and hope he would return.

In the end he had, even if Elenwё had not.

“I will go hold watch,” Turgon says after a while. “I will wake you when it is time.”

Finrod nods and sits down to rest beside the fire. He is so very tired and his hands hurt, but his mind will not find rest. His Doom rests heavy on him, as it has since he has dreamed it, even as the details have evaded his recollection, leaving behind only a hazy impression of pain and darkness. The young _nís_ ’ words have stirred the memory and he wonders how much time is left.

But he cannot think like that. He cannot live like this, wondering every day how much more time remains, until it taints every good thing that is left. It is just as well that there is a task ahead, even if he has yet to discern how to fulfill it. Perhaps Thingol will know where he could start, for he must know these lands well.

Edrahil comes and sits beside him. At first he says nothing, staring, like Finrod, at the dying embers.

“Thank you,” he says at length.

Finrod startles, “whatever for?”

“You could have abandoned me, nay, you ought to have.” Finrod opens his mouth to disagree but Edrahil silences him with a quick look. “Please, let me speak.” He looks back at the fire. “It is the truth. You are a Lord and I am your servant. It is my duty to protect you.”

“It is _not_ your duty to throw your life away,” says Finrod, unable to hold his peace any longer.

Edrahil laughs, quick and harsh and Finrod gazes at him in surprise. “It is,” he says evenly. “As it ought to be.”

At this, Finrod puzzles. It is as if he speaks the words of someone else, but who in the erstwhile host of Finarfin would have reason to speak upon him thus? And he knows Edrahil crossed the ice with them, for he has mentioned it before, but Finrod cannot remember him, much as he tries. That does not mean much, for there were countless that left, even as so very few of them have lived to step foot off the ice.

But maybe, he is thinking of this as a puzzle too complex and not as he ought to. The answer, more often than not, is the obvious. “What did my nephew tell you?”

At this Edrahil looks at him surprised. Finrod smiles ruefully. “I know he cares for me and is sometimes overzealous at it.” Which is still somewhat of a mystery, considering that Angrod is more likely to toss him into the nearest body of water than to worry for his safety. He has done such - or tried to at least - on many occasions in Valinor.

“He is right to be,” Edrahil says. “You are-” At this he cuts himself off abruptly.

“I am most precious? The most beautiful elf you have ever seen? A treasure so valuable, entire kingdoms could be ransomed for me?” Finrod teases, gleefully watching how Edrahil squirms, clearly opposed to the copious amounts of self-flattery but entirely unwilling to contradict him.

Ai, but it is easy to forget like this, to turn his back on the sorrow hanging over him. Finrod sinks back, laying his head onto the soft ground and stares at the stars above.

“I will save you as many times as I have to,” he says to the star-blanketed night sky. “You are one of my people and it is what I have decided to do. I will not have my people be my shield.” Edrahil looks ready to object, so Finrod reaches out to him ere he can remember the state of his hands. He flinches in pain and Edrahil gently catches his wrists and then lies down as well, cradling Finrod’s hands against his chest.

Finrod’s heart thumps painfully against his ribs. Surely, Edrahil must hear it too.

They lie like that for a long time, Finrod’s curled hands pressed against Edrahil’s chest. They do not speak and eventually Finrod’s exhaustion overtakes him and he sinks into a deep slumber.

He dreams of a light in the darkness. 

~~~

Faeriel doesn’t look back when she follows her family into the wilds to meet up with the rest of their kin. She can feel her father’s concern, as he watches her, his weariness clouding his mind like a shroud. He’s always had more understanding of her foresight than the rest of her family. But he says nothing, knowing perhaps that it is too late to change the choice she has made.

At last, her father turns away, his grief tangling in his _f_ _ё_ _a_ and she is suddenly filled with a fierce sorrow for her strong, caring father for he too must bear the echo of her choice. But she has made her choice and she has made it for someone who is worthy of it. She has seen into the heart of the golden elf and she has seen too the wisdom and kindness that resides there. He did not have to save them, she would not have in his stead, for the task had been perilous. They are strangers and he is golden and fair where they are cast in the shadow of the world.

The night falls around her like a mantle and she closes her eyes. Somewhere in the distance a bird calls and her father answers. Their clan must have lingered nearby, hopeful but unable to find them. She wonders at the chance that has brought the two elves into their path, wonders too if this was a facet of fate she had not foreseen. But no fate had dictated her choice.

For she has foreseen her own fate, as she has many others, but where others paths lay shadowed by doom or providence, hers had been empty, nothing to mar its progress, nothing to suggest she had any sort of role to fulfill. Of all the elves she had knew, she alone had been free of fate.

But now that too has changed.

Their clan is small and has little to offer. Certainly nothing that the golden elf would have needed of them. Deep in her heart she knows he would have gladly taken their thanks and no more. And it is precisely because of this, because of the truth she has seen in his heart, that she has given him the greatest gift she had to offer. Even if he may never know what she has done.

Now she will wait until she will hear the whispers calling her to his doom.

And when the time comes, she will be ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch me painstakingly paste ä into Eärwen's name every time I mention her until I remember:  
> \- I am German  
> \- I have a German keyboard  
> \- there is a stupid ä key on my stupid German keyboard


	2. Chapter 2

Edrahil becomes something of a fixture after their trip along the Sirion. It is not favoritism, even though there are some who think it is. But there is no need for such a thing, for Edrahil is skilled with blade and bow and he proves himself easily to be a dedicated fighter, so that few can complain when Finrod makes him captain of his guard.

And if Finrod secretly wishes that he would be more than that, then that is something that concerns no one but him.

In truth, he does not know how to bridge the gap between them. Edrahil is almost painfully polite in dealing with him and there ever seems to be an invisible line between them that he refuses to cross.

So it is with mixed feelings that Finrod embarks on a journey to Doriath to at last visit his sister and great uncle. There is no debate that Edrahil will lead the contingent of guards that will accompany him. It would be nice to think of this as a pleasure trip with just the two of them but of course there is diplomacy to uphold and formalities to observe.

At least he is not alone in this, as his brothers will meet up with them on the road. And he is truly glad to see his siblings again, and the joy of this is only marred by the absence of their parents, but for that, in the end, he must be glad, as the shadow of Morgoth cannot fall upon them.

~~~

The road to Doriath is not overly long, but there have been many orc sightings near the mountains bordering Dorthonion. Angrod and Aegnor bring further tidings of war parties, small bands of orcs striking quick and swift in the night, often taking prisoners. It is an ill picture, more so when combined with Finrod’s knowledge of orc-incursions in the South. He will have to write to the High King, perhaps have another council and face the matter. Nothing good can come from Angband taking so many elves prisoner.

As a result, Edrahil takes special care in selecting their camp sites at night, and he insists on sleeping in front of Finrod’s tent.

“There is no need,” Finrod says the first night Edrahil puts his bedroll down in front of his tent. “I will be perfectly safe; I am surrounded by guards and you shall not suffer on my behalf.”

“It is not suffering,” Edrahil says, kneeling on his bedroll looking up at Finrod and oh how he wished their positions were reserved. He has been struck with many of these thoughts, ever since their adventures near the Falls of Sirion. The memory of Edrahil pressing him into the rock crevice has given him sustenance in many a lonely night. It does not help either that Edrahil insists on calling him ‘my Lord’. The memory of himself calling Fingon such is still alive in his mind. “And if it is, I suffer gladly in your service.”

This fills Finrod with dismay. The ground is not so harsh as to be truly uncomfortable. He has, in fact, argued this very fact to prevent the tent, but has been soundly overruled, but the night air is still fairly cold and there really is no need for Edrahil to sleep outside on the ground. _Since there is a very convenient tent right there_. “What ruler would I be, if I built on my people’s suffering?”

Edrahil sighs and rises to stand. Finrod is distracted for a moment by the sinuous motion. It’s frankly embarrassing by how affected he is by the most minute of Edrahil’s movements. “This is not a debate on the duties of a ruler,” - of which they have had many - Edrahil says quietly. “What I do by choice does not reflect on you, my Lord. Please, I wish to keep you safe, nothing more.”

To that, he has no choice but to concede. “Very well,” he says, secretly admiring how thoroughly Edrahil has disarmed his favorite argument. “But sleep inside the tent in the very least.”

Edrahil’s eyes widen in clear surprise. “I would never impose.”

“Well, it’s a matter of efficiency, is it not? The closer you are to me, the faster you may drag me to safety. After all, a tent will not protect me from an attack.” He beams at Edrahil, quite pleased with himself.

Edrahil’s lips twitch. “Very well.”

~~~

It was a mistake. Oh what a terrible mistake it was. The tent is not big, he had insisted on ease over comfort and for once had been given his will. As a result, the distance between him and Edrahil is excruciatingly small. Edrahil is a quiet sleeper, his breath only evident by the rise and fall of his chest, and even that Finrod can only barely make out in the gloomy darkness of filtered moonlight. But even if there is no noise to betray his presence and even if Finrod closes his eyes and turns away, the knowledge of Edrahil’s presence is like a brand against his mind.

He oughtn’t, but he cannot keep his thoughts from drifting. He could roll over a little too enthusiastically, perhaps in the throes of a dream, so he would ‘accidentally’ bump into Edrahil. They’d all slept in piles on the ice so he could use that as pretense to cuddle closer. After all, the nights are cool and his dreams were even colder.

The thought is tempting. But Finrod doesn’t move. It would be deceit. However innocuous, however inconsequential, it would still be deceit. Edrahil may find himself pressed to offer comfort, thinking his Lord in need of such. He would do it on duty alone and that thought leaves Finrod miserable and cold.

He doesn’t want duty, nor does he want to ask something of Edrahil that he is not willing to freely give. What he wants- and oh if he did at least know of all he wanted of his guard. He wants Edrahil to take him, just as Maedhros and Fingon had taken him, taking his pleasure from Finrod, but that, he has come to understand, had only been a glimpse. He had seen the trust between his cousins, even after Thangorodrim, or perhaps especially after Thangorodrim. He wants that too, to be known this deeply by one he knows as deeply in turn.

But does he want both of Edrahil? Or just the one. Ai, it is difficult to sort through his desires. Thinking of the things Edrahil might do to him, given his way, makes him achingly uncomfortable. Which is wholly unappropriated with the object of his desire in the same tent. Finrod rolls on his side, back to Edrahil, lest he wakes and spies what Finrod does not wish him to see. Except, what if he did see and liked it?

Finrod presses his eyes closed, trying to find calm. He wants to touch himself badly, but that would be unaccountably rude. And as much as he likes to roll his eyes at propriety and decorum, he would be amiss to subject his guard, nay his friend for surely that is what they have become, to this discourtesy.

It must be lust then, Finrod concludes bitterly. For how else could his thoughts be overcome with carnality and little else? Surely, he would have had more tender desires if there was more. It is for the best then that Edrahil has drawn a line between them. He can find carnal pleasure elsewhere, without having to muddy the waters between them.

He does not sleep well that night, nor many of the nights that follow, but he has no one but himself to blame for that.

~~~

Their welcome at Doriath is cordial, although reserved at least on Thingol’s part. And it is no surprise, for the tidings of what befell at Alqualondё have at last reached his ears. It is perhaps owed to Melian’s intercession that they are not tossed out on their ears immediately, or perhaps his sister, who now goes by Galadriel, has won his goodwill in the interim.

Either way, Thingol grants them audience and it is there that Angrod, angered by the accusations, lays the whole ordeal out in the open. Their innocence in the slaying, the pain of Fёanor’s betrayal. All the many things that have threatened to cleave the Noldor apart. It would have been better to keep these, for peace has long been made at the Mereth Aederthad, but hearing of it thaws Thingol’s heart to them and his renewed welcome is a relief.

It also means that none but Finarfin’s children are welcome and likely ever will be, but Finrod cannot find blame in that. If his friendship with Turgon had not run so deep, in his darkest nights he could not be sure that he would have found cause to forgive at all.

Sometimes he still questions if he ought to have. If there is ever reason to forgive what had befallen - his mother’s kin slain, their blood mingling with the foamy tide, but he has made his choice and he will not rescind it.

For better or for worse, he has made his choice.

~~~

Thingol plans a banquet in their honor, but he grants them the grace period of a few days to grow adjusted. Truthfully, Finrod is glad, for he has his own rooms and no one insisting to guard his door and while his heart is still strangely heavy, he can now at least sleep in peace.

He meets with his sister for breakfast the day before the banquet. It is odd to see her like this, dressed in flowing robes, her hair loose. It seems she has taken to Ladyship and truly, he is glad of it. He knows her strength, knows too she can defend herself and more, but the further she is from danger, the easier his heart rests.

Already, they have lost too much.

“Don’t bring heavy thoughts to the breakfast table,” Galadriel chides him,

“Forgive me.” Finrod smiles ruefully. “It is just that I am glad for you. Of all the things to have come from our crossing, this is the most blessed.”

“I would not have thought so myself, but Celeborn…” She smiles, deep and true and Finrod's heart soars for her.

“He does not seem like what I would have expected you would like,” Finrod confesses, perhaps as well to needle her, just a little.

“Oh? And pray tell, what did you expect?”

“I figured you would hold a contest. Whoever defeats you in a bout of wrestling can claim you.” Finrod keeps his face straight, but oh it is hard.

She snorts very inelegantly. “And you think Celeborn would not win?”

“Please,” Finrod says. “May his strength be winged by love, but he will still lose. It’s you we are talking about, after all.”

Galadriel makes a thoughtful noise. “Perhaps, if I were serious. But why ought I be? With one such as him. There is more than strength of arms. Although I suppose, you would count that before all else.” She gives him a look over the rim of her goblet, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Or is it not so?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Finrod says, studiously avoiding her all too knowing eyes. Where he has flashes or foresight, she has preternatural intuition, often seeing to the heart of things with ease.

“The way you ogle your guard captain, certainly speaks of it.”

Finrod splutters, “I do _not_ ogle him.”

“Ingo, my sweet clueless brother. If you ogled him any harder, I think his skin would burn from the heat.”

He opens his mouth to refute her, but of course he cannot truly claim he hasn’t _looked_. But to this extent? “Is it that obvious?” He asks, dreading the answer.

“Well that depends.” Galadriel is having way too much fun on his account. Ai, he ought to find the nearest pond and shove her into it. It worked well enough in Valinor, except it never did because whichever sibling ended up drenched quickly saw to it that the others would follow suit swiftly. Even the innocent ones. Galadriel smiles as if she knows where his thoughts have gone. She probably does and she will also know all the good bodies of water in Doriath and he will have to watch his step for a while. “You have that look about you, of being in deep contemplation. It must seem quite charming if one doesn’t know, I am sure. But it is rather odd that you would always have your captain - ai what was his name again, Edrahil. Aye, thank you - in sight when you contemplate.”

“Does _he_ know?”

Galadriel shrugs and even that gesture looks elegant now. Like she hadn’t thrown horse manure at Celegorm when he had dared to pull her braids that one time. “That one keeps his thoughts close, but I’d wager he must be aware that something is going on. You are not unsubtle, well not as unsubtle as you could be, but he does watch you when he knows you are not looking. Granted, that is seldom, for you always look at him, so make of that what you will.”

Finrod swallows. There is a chance here, he realizes, for Galadriel might surely know and unlike his married brother is unlikely to spend significant time laughing about it ere offering advice.

“How did you know?” He asks, swallowing, “that Celeborn returned your feelings?”

“I asked him of course.”

Finrod groans. “But, how can I? I cannot even say for sure I have feelings. All I ever think about is-” he cuts himself off, abruptly. He doesn’t want to confess to his sister of what he’d dreamed ever since the Falls of Sirion.

“Having your wicked way with him?” She asks, bemused.

Finrod’s ears burn. “Love and lust is not the same. How can I know?” It is hard to look at her and not burn with embarrassment, but Galadriel only regards him with cool understanding.

“Would it be so bad to try one and find the other?”

“What if I don’t?” he asks, voice small.

“You ought to ask yourself, why does that matter? If all you wanted was a willing body, find another one. It ought be easy enough. We both know how lovely you are.” She smiles at that, wide and wicked and he thinks back on the many adventures they had in Valinor, strutting about in ever more outrageous garments just to see the stunned reactions. They had been called a menace more than once. “Yet you haven’t,” she continues. “Instead, you sit here, worrying. That alone ought to tell you something.”

Finrod looks down at the table. He ought to have known his sister would cut to the heart of the matter. “Am I afraid then? Of being rejected? Is that why I find reasons to delay the choice?”

“Who knows,” she says sagely. “But to this I shall say, we are no longer in Valinor where the days were endless and peaceful. Truly, I was scared as well when I revealed my heart to Celeborn, but if I had waited, who knows what kind of shadows would have fallen on us? Is it not worth the risk of failure to at least try? Would you truly want to walk into whatever bitter end awaits us without ever having tasted the light?”

“And subject someone else to the shadow of my fate?”

“All the more reason to,” says Galadriel. “Your fate is your own, just as my fate is mine. And yet the darker it will be, the more I wish the path towards my doom be cast in light. And anyone who will it, may trod it next to me. Is that not why were born as many instead of few? To give each other company in the dark?”

“Perhaps,” Finrod allows, “but then I do not think we were made at all, only to suffer.”

“And yet we suffer, be it providence or not. But it is our choice to suffer it alone.”

Finrod mulls that over for a while. Galadriel leaves him to his thoughts with companionable ease.

At length he says, “You have given me much to think about and I thank you for that. I wonder also, about the shaded path your thoughts have taken lately. Is there aught I can do to ease your burden?”

That surprises a laugh from her. “Ai, fret not Ingo. My thoughts are not given easily to darkness. It is merely that I pondered at great length if I ought to approach Celeborn at all. After the ice…” At that her eyes cloud with the chill of memory. “I have seen what it did to Turgon and to Fingon too, although he at least had cause to redress his loss.”

Finrod’s eyebrows shoot up. “You knew? About our cousins?”

“Of course. They were hardly subtle. And I did say I could see Fingon’s grief on the ice, it was not difficult to put together why it ran so deep. Ai, but I wonder that you did. You are bright in mind but often lost in it too.” He cannot help it; the memory is still fresh and tender in his mind. He only hopes Galadriel will not take his blush to judgment. “Not that lost then,” she comments, a bemused smile dancing on her lips. It fades quickly however. “Loss is a fearsome thing. I feared it would ruin Turgon. And perhaps it might have, if it had not been for Idril.” She does not say that for sure it would have ruined Fingon, if he had come to Middle Earth and had found Maedhros dead instead of lost.

Finrod makes an assenting sound. To watch his friend suffer and be able to do naught about it. It had been oh so hard, but how much harder must it have been for the bereaved himself?

“It scared me,” says Galadriel, voice raw. “It still does. I doubt it will ever leave me fully, but I have also found that life shines brighter in the shadow of death. I do not wish to live and have never tasted love for fear of death.”

There is little he can add to that, not at least until he has had time to make his own thoughts on the matter. “I suppose now we both have brought dark thoughts to the breakfast table,” he says wryly.

“Well then, when will you tell that strapping captain of your guard that you would like some fencing lessons?” She waggles her eyebrows at the last part, and just like that she is the sister he knew from Valinor, the one who wore breeches under her dresses, better to chase after her cousins after they inevitably did something to offend her. Or Aredhel for that matter. Galadriel had never been choosy in her causes.

“If I asked that, he will most likely give me actual sword lessons.”

“Well, you could certainly use them.”

Laughing, Finrod chucks a piece of cheese at his sister. “I will prove you otherwise right now if you wish it,” he threatens, still laughing and then has to duck when she returns his fire with a grape.

“Ai, but will you risk losing in front of your captain?” She asks teasingly. Begrudgingly he has to admit that the point is not without merit. Between them, their wins are more or less even, so there is no guarantee that he will win this particular match. Even if he does, at this point the only way either can win against the other is by employing rather dirty tactics, else they’d be trapped in an endless stalemate. Either is ill suited to endear him to anyone. He has cultivated a certain image, after all. Rolling in the dirt while jabbing his little sister in the kidneys would certainly lay waste to that, never mind that Galadriel would be equally busy strangling him with his own hair. Or hers. Both has happened before.

“You could invite him to dance tomorrow,” she suggests after they have at last finished breaking their fast - and almost breaking some furniture as well in the course of their impromptu food fight. “Or if that is too public for you,” she adds, interpreting his expression correctly, “find some excuse to sneak away? I will keep Angrod and Aegnor from interfering. It will be held outdoors and it is not unusual for guests to seek a grove for pleasure.” She smiles fondly and Finrod decides not to ask. Knowing her she would actually tell him. In great detail.

“I will think on it,” he promises. And he does, spending the late morning hours contemplating in one of the above ground gardens. To his own wonder and surprise, he finds that somehow his heart, quite without his conscious knowledge has already set itself firmly on confessing his feelings to Edrahil. And it is even more surprising to find that once his mind has caught up, he feels overall lighter, as though a great burden has been lifted. 

~~~

But Finrod does not think it wise to wait, as much as he wishes to. He cannot help but think of his own experience, of waking up next to Findekáno and Maitimo and thinking futilely how nice it would have been to stay. He could have perhaps. He’s had the sense sometimes, that they would have liked more of him, would have liked to repeat the experience in the very least. But he had fled, thinking himself no more than an interloper. He’s never had the heart to truly find out if he had been wrong.

He does not want the same for Edrahil, to think himself nothing more than a flight of fancy, a fleeting diversion for his bored liege.

So after the evening meal has concluded, he makes his way to Edrahil’s quarters, near his own as is befitting his status as Finrod’s captain of the guard. It is, perhaps, not befitting a Lord of his status to seek out his guard, but he is loath to summon Edrahil to him. Not for this.

Edrahil opens to his knocking, seeming startled by his presence. “My Lord,” he says all the same and bows as he always has.

And just like that Finrod’s words flee him. It is laughable, truly, for all his wit and wisdom, that now his tongue ought to be tied. But Edrahil, Valar bless him, as always catches him when he falters and smoothly inquires, “would you like to come in?”

“Aye,” Finrod says, his voice rougher as it ought to be. He steps inside and looks around. Edrahil has only unpacked what is necessary, his travel pack neatly stored away otherwise. The rooms are smaller by far than Finrod’s own, but neat and warm, made more so by Edrahil’s own presence.

Edrahil waits for him as he always does, hands clasped behind his back, patient and alert, and Finrod is suddenly, terribly aware of how inappropriate this is. Edrahil must for sure think he came for duty, an errand to be requested or a task to be fulfilled. How could he even think to demand more?

And, there too, is the fear, that terrible, terrible fear of rejection. Of seeing contempt on Edrahil’s face, for surely to be wanted by another _nér_ must be repulsive for most? He cannot say, Fingon and Maedhros having made it seem so simple before. But what if it is not so for Edrahil?

He almost flees then, without a word but Edrahil says again “my Lord,” and his voice is such a melodious smooth thing, it roots Finrod to the spot. 

He thinks of his sister’s words and thinks too, of chances missed and truly, to leave now, he could never bear it. Finrod takes a step forward, and another and then he is in Edrahil’s space, close enough to brush against him. He leans in further to kiss him at last, when a memory rises to his mind.

His own first kiss, Fingon standing before him, just like this and saying, _everything is your choice_. Ai, how could he have forgotten?

Finrod stops. The choice had mattered, even though he had not understood it until now. To take without asking, it is not to be borne. 

“My Lord?” Edrahil asks, voice unsure now. Yet, he has not moved.

“I would kiss you, if you would have me,” he says and oh is it terrifying, but also freeing in a way he did not expect. To finally say it at long last. Whatever the consequences may be, his heart will be freer for it.

Edrahil inhales, near enough to a gasp and Finrod braces himself for contempt. But Edrahil’s face is overtaken with a kind of wonder instead and then he moves forward, slowly as if unsure and then his lips gently nudge against Finrod’s. And, _oh_ , how different this is to his first kiss with Fingon. Then, he had been so overwhelmed with the new sensations that he could hardly recall what made the kiss quintessentially Fingon. 

But it is different now. Edrahil’s lips are soft and smooth and oh so pliant. Finrod can feel them slightly tremble and then Edrahil sighs and his lips part. Finrod licks inside and Edrahil makes a sound, small and startled but then he shifts against Finrod, angling their bodies together and his hands tangle in Finrod’s hair. It is wonderful and sweet and Finrod is about to lose himself, when Edrahil freezes. 

“I’m sorry, my Lord,” he gasps, breath spilling against Finrod’s lips, “I have forgotten my place,” and then he draws away.

Finrod grasps his hands gently, pushing them back into his hair. “I will it,” Finrod murmurs, “if you will it too, please do not think to stop.”

Edrahil tilts his head to rest their foreheads together, but his hands wind back into Finrod’s hair, one hand finding its way to cradle the back of his head. “My Lord, do as you please,” he breathes. Finrod grasps his deeper meaning. This is not a subject offering himself to his Lord, but a _nér_ who offers himself to another. It is more, so much more than Finrod could have ever imagined.

He shifts his own hands into Edrahil’s hair, tangling the silky strands with his fingers and seeks out his lips again. He is hungry this time, almost forceful, but Edrahil easily meets him, equally driven by his desires. 

Finrod remembers too, and just as Fingon had done to him ages ago, he slides his leg between Edrahil’s legs and pushes upwards. Edrahil makes a sound, breathless and needy and grinds down hard, the way Finrod had not dared to himself.

And this is wonderful and heady and oh so perfect, but Finrod still falters, unsure how to give shape to the desire pounding in his blood. He cannot for himself follow Fingon’s steps, nor does he want to in this sweet endeavor of discovery, but that leaves him lost and unsure. 

But as ever, Edrahil is there to catch him when he falters. He grabs the back of Finrod’s head, shifting them to a different angle and for a while there is little else he can focus on but Edrahil is kissing him. And then Edrahil’s other hand slips between his legs, cupping him through his breeches.

Finrod keens, his member swelling. He tilts his head back as Edrahil’s lips at last abandon his own and wander downward, along his neck and Finrod can only hold on to Edrahil and weather the storm. 

He has not thought much about his raiments, but he is glad that he went for simple clothing, breeches and a tunic, unfit as it might be, when Edrahil’s hand slips inside his breeches and cups his member. Finrod moans, pushing himself against Edrahil’s hand. He has touched himself before, to thoughts of Edrahil, but he has never quite found the same high he had with his cousins before, nor like this, his blood rushing frantically, skin aflame with sensation.

It does not take long, Edrahil’s skilled fingers twisting, shifting around him, ere he comes, messily and loudly, panting desperately, as Edrahil showers kisses on his throat and collarbone.

They remain like this for a long while, Finrod catching his breath and Edrahil holding him through it, rubbing gentle circles on his back, his other hand withdrawn somewhere where he won’t stain Finrod with his own seed.

Ah, how must he always be so considerate? Finrod would not mind if he made him swallow his own seed, if he had Finrod lick clean his hand and fingers, until no trace remains, but the slick of Finrod’s own saliva.

When he has calmed enough to take note of his surroundings, Finrod realizes that Edahil himself is woefully unattended to, his breeches bulging, even as he keeps his lower body away from Finrod. 

Finrod reaches for him, less sure as he’d like to, as little experienced as he is, but driven by want and equal need. 

“My Lord,” Edrahil says, alarmed and Finrod cannot help himself but gently laugh.

“Let me,” he says softly, “I wish it and it is not beneath me to return pleasure as I have received it.”

Edrahil shudders, perhaps fighting with himself, but then he acquiesces, shifting closer and Finrod traces his fingers over the prominent bulge. He pulls open the strings of Edrahil’s breeches, parting the front until he reveals Edrahil’s waiting erection.

Finrod is aware of making an awed sound, but little else when he sinks down to his knees, drawn inexorably closer by the sight and feel of Edrahil heavy in his hand.

Edrahil starts, hand reaching, perhaps to pull him up again and there is clear alarm on his face. “Please, let me,” Finrod asks and Edrahil’s hands fall quiet at his side. 

Finrod stares and stares and yet does not think it will ever be enough. He draws a finger along the smooth length, feels the velvet of the skin and it is oh so wondrous. Edrahil stands proud and thick, slightly curved with the head flushed a delightful shade of red.

He cannot help himself; he leans in and puts his lips to the shaft. He kisses along the length, but that is still not quite enough so he licks a long stripe from root to head. Edrahil gasps, his thighs trembling slightly and then his hands twist into Finrod’s hair.

Finrod wants _more_ so he does it again and then, daringly, he closes his lips around the head and sucks. Edrahil makes a low keening noise, fingers tightening their grip and closes his eyes. It’s wonderful, and just in case Edrahil gets ideas again, Finrod moans encouragingly and sets himself to the task of driving Edrahil wild. He does not know how to properly do this, having never done it before, but it is easy enough to chase the sounds Edrahil makes. Whenever Finrod manages something especially pleasing, Edrahil moans most delightfully and his fingers pull especially hard on Finrod’s hair. He wonders how it would be if Edrahil were to move Finrod’s head instead, push him where he wanted him to with no heed to Finrod’s own wishes.

The thought is thrilling and if he hadn’t spent so very recently, he would likely be hard again.

Finrod takes Edrahil as deep as he can, which isn’t all that deep, but there will be time, he muses, until he can swallow him to the root and won’t that be wonderful?

And then Edrahil’s entire body tenses, an almost surprised moan falling from his lips ere he comes, spilling onto Finrod’s tongue. Finrod is surprised to find how bitter the seed is, but still he dutifully catches every last drop, wondering too at how little he minds the astringency, as it is Edrahil’s after all. _Edrahil_ who has just come undone by Finrod’s labor alone.

He at last lets go of Edrahil, sitting back to look at his face. Edrahil seems dismayed however. “Forgive me,” he pants, breath still uneven from his climax. “I did not mean to-” he swallows convulsively “-defile you.”

At that, Finrod nearly laughs. “Ah, but you cannot defile what has long since been defiled. Besides, from one such as you I’d rather call it adornment than defilement.”

This time, Edrahil’s exclamation of “My Lord” is scandalized.

“But I would wish you’d call me by name just once,” Finrod says. “For have I not taken you into myself just now? Does this intimacy not call to be repaid in kind?”

Edrahil opens his mouth, but he seems at a loss for once. “I could not,” he says at length, but it seems there is little heart in the denial. 

“Please,” Finrod says simply and he is still kneeling, as must Edrahil have realized just then as he too sinks to his knees. He touches a hand to Finrod’s face, a thumb to where his lips are still slick with spit and there is wonder on his face.

“Oh Finrod,” he says, struck with awe.

And Finrod smiles.

There will be time, later, to talk about all that lies before Finrod, his path to kingship, his Doom. But for now, Finrod is content to gaze at Edrahil, to touch him as he wishes it and listen to the intent flutter of his heart that speaks so much of love, he wonders how he could have ever missed it before.


End file.
